


You're Still the One

by 2SpaceGays



Category: Batwoman (Comic), DCU (Comics), Detective Comics (Comics)
Genre: F/F
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-02-27
Updated: 2017-06-12
Packaged: 2018-09-27 04:45:43
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 2,011
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9965930
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/2SpaceGays/pseuds/2SpaceGays
Summary: A collection of short drabbles sprinkled throughout Kate and Maggie's relationship, from the confines of canon and beyond.





	1. Perfect

The sunlight, almost completely blocked out by the curtain over the window, casts a weak glow concentrated into a thin, bright line that shines across the empty side of the bed and angles across Maggie’s toned back that sheens with sweat. Kate’s blue-painted fingernails scrape gently down her skin and back up again, an absent-minded motion she repeats again and again as their quiet pants settle down into a normal breathing rhythm.

 _God_ , Kate thinks to herself, _this is perfect_. The way their bodies fit together like a puzzle depicting the rest of their lives and the only missing pieces were the two of them is perfect. This moment, with her head against the pillows and her eyes closed and Maggie’s face buried in her neck, her hot breath wafting on her skin, is perfect. The weekend they’ve spent away from Gotham, away from all the crime and corruption, the unexpected interruptions and the threat of a family member showing up unannounced at any given moment, is perfect.

 _Maggie Sawyer_ is perfect. And Kate can’t imagine feeling so secure, so _right_ and so _in love_ with anyone else. And, she knows, there’s no other woman worthy of wearing her mom’s old engagement ring than the blonde falling back to sleep  on top of her with the redhead’s fingers gently playing with the small curls at the base of her neck.


	2. For Better and For Worse

Kate's birthday is unlike any of other days Maggie takes off work.

Typically, when she calls in to the commissioner to sheepishly request time off, it's because her fiancee's body, still warm from sleep, presses her own back into the mattress, teasing her with lips at the corner of her jaw and fingers playing at her hips, and a smirk that promises a day she won't get if she leaves for Central. Those are rare; most of the time, Kate knows better than to ask, and when she does, Maggie is too stubborn, too committed to the job, to give in.

Other times, it's the  _absence_ of Kate's body atop of hers that does her in. Before she even sees the bruises, the split lip, and the swollen eye, her mind is made up. She stays to assess the extent of the damage, to check for cracked ribs and teeth, for the telltale signs of concussion. She fixes what she can, reprimands her still-groggy lover, and clocks in late, irritated, and distracted.

But for Kate's birthday, she needs no needling. Maggie requests the day off as soon as she's able, and demands radio silence precluding only the death or serious injury of one of her own.

 

Kate's birthday is unlike any of the romantic, self-indulgent pictures painted by the romance novels (not that Maggie would know), television shows, movies, and magazines.

It starts the night before, with the determined, _dangerous_  crease in her lover's brow as her cowl is pulled on and her wig fixed in place. It starts with sunlight streaming through the bedroom window, with Kate's face pressed into Maggie's neck and her fingers gripping her sides as morning disorientation gives way to melancholy. It's Maggie's hands rubbing her back and her lips against her scalp until Kate finds the courage to drag herself out from underneath the safety offered by the blankets. It's brunch, but it's not at the birthday girl's favorite cafe, but her late mother's. They go to the cemetery rather than the movies or the mall or the river. There's flowers, but they're placed reverently on the grave of Gabrielle Kane, rather than pressed lovingly into her surviving daughters' hands. They see Jacob, Beth, and Bette, without a single gift being exchanged.

At home, Maggie cooks. It's a dish Kate likes, but an unremarkable one, and not her favorite. In celebration, there's a single slice of chocolate cake, a glass of champagne, and just a few small, inconsequential presents -- a new necklace, or a ring, with a card and sweet message written inside. There's no demand for joviality, just Kate laying against her chest on the sofa and one her dozen dramas on the television. The sex, if there is any, if for comfort rather than pleasure.

 

If Maggie could take just one day off in the entire calendar year, it would be this one.


	3. The Best Few Minutes of the Day

Staring out at the surprisingly beautiful skyline of Gotham’s famous gothic-meet-modern architecture, mug in her bruised-knuckled hands still steaming hot, Kate smiles. Gotham wasn’t good to her last night, but Maggie was. She _always_ is, and Kate’s positive that she’s the luckiest woman in the world to have someone as loving and attentive as Maggie Sawyer. Being Captain of the MCU isn’t an easy job and doesn’t leave a lot of free time, but somehow Maggie _makes_ it—even if it’s just a few minutes in the morning or at night and that means more to her than the blonde’ll ever know.

She’s taking a sip of her coffee when she notices movement in the reflection on the window and catches sight of Maggie’s disheveled hair. She lowers the mug and sets it down on the end table just a short step to her right and turns around. Maggie stands there, her pressed white oxford unbuttoned and hanging open and rolled up at the sleeves and just barely concealing her bare breasts. The evidence from last night’s still fresh, countless little love bites pinkening the skin of her neck and collarbone, chest and abdomen. Her slacks are already fastened, belt neatly in place. God, she’s absolutely _stunning_.

“Morning, gorgeous,” Maggie’s voice is still a little husky with sleep, a subtle scratch in her throat with it, and Kate can’t help the fondness in her smile or her voice when she returns the sentiment.

“Morning, beautiful.” 

She may never be able to put those feelings of appreciation and adoration and just how much she _loves_ her into words, but actions _do_ speak louder. Kate closes the distance between them, hands ducking inside the flaps of her shirt to wrap her arms around her midsection and pull herself in closer. Relishing in the warmth of the embrace, she presses her face into the groove of her wife’s neck, takes in her distinct, familiar scent with a slow inhale.

It takes every single part of her not to ask her to stay home from work today and spend the day in bed with her, cuddling and talking like it’s their first time. But, she supposes, there’s nothing wrong with making her a little late if it means she gets to stay right here in this moment, with Maggie’s head resting against her own and her lips pressed to her temple, listening to her heartbeat that Kate swears is synced with her own.

It’s just a few minutes, but these are the best few minutes of the day.


	4. 'Cause You Had A Bad Day

Even if she hadn’t seen the evening news, the way the news anchors railed against the GCPD and Captain Sawyer for a crime they’ve _all_ been working to solve for almost a month now, Kate would still know that Maggie’s had a bad day. The way her shoulders are slumped under the heavy weight of Gotham City’s relentless underworld when she comes in, the distracted half-smile she offers her before an even more distracted kiss brings them together for just the briefest of moments. Kate doesn’t complain, she knows what it’s like to have a day like this, and she knows the strained affection doesn’t mean anything. They’re kind of perfect like that; she never feels like she needs to worry or that something's wrong, Maggie just needs a little time—and a little comfort.

Kate helps her out of her jacket and catches her hand in her own, pausing her just long enough to press a soft, chaste kiss to the blonde’s cheek before she lets her disappear into the bedroom. She half-sits on the arm of the couch waiting for her to return and she does, a few minutes later, and Kate sinks down onto the cushions instead, guides Maggie down with her. She turns the TV to Jamie’s favorite channel in hopes that it might, at the very least, make the detective smile (and keep her from obsessing over what the news is saying). She mutes it and white noises takes its place as Maggie shifts to lay down, her head coming to rest in the redhead’s lap and she takes the opportunity comb her fingers through those short, soft blonde locks.

The conversation Kate initiates avoids the topic of ‘how was your day’ because she already knows and the last thing she wants to do right now is make Maggie upset all over again, especially when the question gets turned on _her_ and she has no good news for their case, either. Instead, she tells her about breath-taking fish tank she’d seen on some reality show that afternoon and briefly teases her about getting one for them, to which Maggie gives her an amused snort and tells her she’s seen the kinds of things rich people put in fish tanks and she _absolutely_ _will not_ have a tiger shark swimming around in their living room. _Tiger shark_. Kate’s almost offended by the suggestion that she’d choose the most basic bitch of sharks to be her exotic and not-at-all-illegal pet in this hypothetical aquarium.

They go back and forth on it for a while, teasing and compromising on tank decorations and fish choices and where they’d put it, all the while Kate’s fingers play idly with her lover’s hair.  And eventually, Maggie’s responses get slower, more muffled until finally they stop altogether and Kate’s left with the sound of her calm, quiet breaths. The way she looks down at her then, fingertips playing with her little blonde curls, is the kind of gaze that's full of a love that can never be explained in words but is clearly spelled out in the admiration that twinkles in Kate’s eyes and the fondness that curves the corners of her lips upward and forms the subtle crease in her brow.

Tomorrow will see the stress return, she knows, but for tonight Kate’s determined to keep in chased away.

 


	5. Warm

Gotham City has a proclivity for cruelty. That’s as true in the winter months as it is in the summer ones, when the temperature plummets into the negatives the instant the last sliver of sun disappears below the horizon. Frost sheens on the sidewalk, promising bruises, if not breaks and sprains, and windshields fog dangerously. Some months, the detectives at the GCPD joke that the number of road fatalities might surpass the number of murders (it never even comes close).

Maggie can crank the heating in the apartment up to 120 degrees, if she so wishes, but no matter what the thermostat reads, her bed remains cold when she slides into it.

On night when Kate stays in, it warms quickly, one way or another. But when her lover is out, patrolling the freezing streets in her cowl, or attending some function Maggie’s work lets her escape, she lays in the cool bedding for hours, unable to sleep until it warms.

That is, until Kate – or rather, an electric substitute for her – comes along.

The package had come as a surprise, too soft to be wine and too large to be clothing. In spite her curiosity, Maggie hadn’t opened it, eager to get to work and unwilling to commit a federal offense besides. When she finally made it home, fifteen hours later, it had been to an empty apartment and a note stuck to her fridge, in Kate’s handwriting, directing her to turn the bed ‘on’.

The switch, dangling out from beneath the blankets judiciously piled on the bed, answered all her questions.

Kate had gotten her an electric blanket - one with twenty-seven different heat settings, eight heating zones, parental locks, and a nine-hundred dollar price tag. She could have done without the extravagance, but at least she would never go to bed cold again.

Gotham City might be cruel, but its residents – one at least – are not.

 


End file.
